


the storms will push and pull (but this place is home)

by sapphictomaz



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 13:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20471627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphictomaz/pseuds/sapphictomaz
Summary: John Murphy has learned to live with a constant push-pull equilibrium. Bellamy Blake has not.





	the storms will push and pull (but this place is home)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueparacosm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/gifts).

> title is from "north" by sleeping at last - creds to sarah for that :)
> 
> this fic is a present for the absolutely wonderful jen, @ slugcities on twitter and @ blueparacosm on here. it's her birthday today, and she's an incredible human, so please go wish her an amazing day.

**the beginning;**

Jonathan Murphy has learned to live with a constant push-pull equilibrium. It’s balance, necessary to maintain the order of things. His father taught him that from a young age. With the bad, comes the good; one can’t exist without the other. 

Still, as Murphy paces around his cell in the Skybox, he thinks that he’s been pushed around enough for a lifetime. Surely, the good is on its way. Surely he’s survived all he needs to and sooner rather than later, he’ll have everything he wants.

_ What does he want? _

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything other than the fact that he is afraid.

This isn’t a groundbreaking revelation, but it’s important for one specific reason; he turns eighteen in a week. He already knows that the Ark will never pardon him. A week from now, on the day that is meant to be one of the best of his life, he will be thrown out of the airlock and join his parents in space for all eternity. Those he leaves behind, those left hurtling around on a lump of metal they so elegantly call a space station, will forget about him the moment they turn around.

He knows it’s true, because they forgot about his father, and Alex Murphy was a much better man.

He’s afraid when the door to his cell emits an angry  _ buzz _ and a burly guard throws it open. “On the wall!” he shouts, and Murphy obliges, only because the alternative is so much worse. 

“What’s going on?” he says, hands pressed against the far wall, his back to the guard who keeps on approaching. “My hearing isn’t for another week.” Silence. “Hey, asshole, you’re too early!”

His pleas go unheard, and suddenly, the guard is standing right behind him, pressing his body against the wall, and John Murphy is afraid. “The fire you set injured one of my guys. He’s never going to recover fully.” In a terrifying moment, the guard laughs, low and sinister. His breath is hot against Murphy’s face, the weight only growing stronger. 

Suddenly, Murphy’s hands are being pulled back and the guard pulls out a pair of handcuffs. As he’s being restrained, the guard continues, “I hope it’s not survivable down there. I hope you die, very, very slowly.”

And then he’s being pushed out the door, pulled into the hallway of the Skybox, into a massive line of other kids all being herded out the door. Across the way, he sees a blonde girl being sedated rather than restrained, and Murphy wishes it were him, for a moment, so that he wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that the Ark was about to kill them all. 

Needless to say, John Murphy is afraid. He’s getting a little irritated waiting for the universe to stop pushing and start pulling him back.

**i.**

It’s easier to regain control when you have something to blame for all the things that have gone wrong. In his case, Murphy has someone - Wells Jaha, son of Thelonious Jaha, the very man that condemned his father to death. 

It’s easier to pretend that they’re both their fathers, so that finally, Alex Murphy can take his own revenge. It’s even easier because, down on the ground, Murphy’s not alone in this sentiment. The Chancellor is responsible for all of their situations, and like a gift, he sent his son down to face the repercussions. 

Somewhere, deep down, Murphy knows he’ll never kill Wells. He knows he’s not his father. When he set that fire, back up on the Ark, he knew that guard wasn’t responsible for his father’s death, and he didn’t want to kill him, either. No - he figures that if he gets the crowd riled up enough, if he takes enough control of the mood of the camp, then one of the actual criminals down here will do it for him. 

So he carves  _ first son, first to dye _ for all the see. He’s pretty proud of himself, and he takes a step back to admire the phrase, until a strong hand reaches out and grabs him on the shoulder, pushing him forwards and away from the carving.

“What the hell?” Murphy says, turning around and taking several steps backwards when he locks eyes with Bellamy Blake.  _ He should have known _ .

He doesn’t know much about Bellamy, other than he’s got a sister that he’ll do absolutely anything to protect. He doesn’t know what gives Bellamy the confidence that he has, that allows him to stand up straight and tall and command everyone’s attention. He doesn’t know his motivations, his story, or why his eyes shine brighter than anything he’s ever seen when the sunlight hits them just right. It’s like Bellamy’s got a hold on reality and Murphy’s entranced - he never wants to look away, or to have this moment end. Murphy, for a moment, thinks that he’d like to know more, but then Bellamy’s hand pushes Murphy’s chest, forcing him back several more steps. 

“If you’re going to kill somebody,” Bellamy says, leering over him, “it’s best not to announce it, hmm?”

And Murphy, perhaps still caught under his spell, takes yet another step back to distance himself from Bellamy’s magnetic aura. “I don’t care.”

“Oh, and maybe check your spelling.” 

“Fuck off.”

The words don’t cut him - they only make Bellamy smile in absolutely the worst way. Murphy decides that he loathes the way Bellamy looks when he smiles, because it’s absolutely beautiful and breathtaking, and absolutely nobody has the right to make him feel this way. 

Murphy’s instincts roar for him to close the distance between them and punch Bellamy, maybe knock the lights right out of his eyes, but a part of him that scares him forces him to refrain and he turns around, marching deeper into the woods. He thinks he’d be perfectly content if Bellamy Blake never approached him again.

**ii.**

“Need some help with that?”

Murphy only glances up when he hears Bellamy approach, and grunts in a mildly annoyed way. “No,” he says, though he definitely does. 

Bellamy, though, keeps approaching, doing that horribly irritating thing where he stands with a smirk on his face that says so much yet so little. “You sure?”

Sighing, Murphy puts his knife down and looks up fully to meet Bellamy’s gaze. “I already agreed to your idea. What more do you want?” Murphy’s right arm is flat on the ground in front of him, and he’s been trying to use his knife as leverage to break the wristband off, but he hasn’t been able to find the right angle. 

“Maybe I’m just checking that you’re still following through.”

“And?”

“Well, the intent is here.”

“What was it that I said to you last time we spoke? Oh, right - fuck  _ off _ .”

Bellamy squats, closing the height distance between them. “Oh,” he says, softly, almost in a whisper, “you don’t mean that.”

Murphy’s breath hitches, his heart rate increases, and his world closes in all very suddenly. It’s just him, Bellamy, and the forest floor. “No,” is all he manages to say, though he’s not sure what part he’s objecting to. 

“Here. Let me.” Murphy doesn’t try to stop him as Bellamy sits, putting the pair at a perfectly even height, and then gently takes Murphy’s wrist and lays his arm across his lap. Bellamy looks up, then, still holding his wrist, but eyeing the knife on the ground, as if asking for an invitation. 

For a moment, they stay like that, locked in the tenderness of Bellamy’s touch, but then Murphy relents and passes him the knife. Bellamy nods, subtly, understanding the trust that has been given, and then positions the knife under the wristband and forcefully pulls. 

It hurts, but only for a second, before the wristband  _ whirs _ and pops open, sliding off Murphy’s wrist and landing on the ground. “Thanks,” he says. Bellamy passes the knife back, but keeps his hold on Murphy’s right hand. 

“Bell…?” He wants to say more, but the words get stuck in his throat, and they don’t really matter, anyways. 

Bellamy clears his throat, dropping Murphy’s hand, and stands up. The moment shatters around them. “Thanks,” he says, “for doing that.”

Murphy responds by standing as well and taking a step forward, standing close enough to Bellamy so that he could distinguish his breath from the current of the wind. “Thank you, too.” 

He takes another step forwards, but Bellamy’s already turning around and walking away.

**iii.**

Wells beats Murphy in a fight, yet spares his life, and Murphy can’t help but feel like his father would be so disappointed. 

After he picks himself up off the forest floor, throwing his knife away in anger, he tries to stalk away into the woods, away from anybody else, so that he can cool down and come up with a better plan to finally finish the job. He knows he can beat Wells, if the attack is a surprise - he  _ has _ to be able to. There’s no other option.

He can hear someone following him - someone loud and obnoxious, based on how much sound they were making - and the further he walks, the more annoying it becomes. Finally, he stops and turns around, somehow not at all surprised to see Bellamy.

“Why would you do that to me?” Murphy says, purposefully spitting blood as a point. “Why would you give him a knife? I thought-”

“What? What did you think?” Bellamy scoffs. “You thought that we were friends? That I would help you? I gave him a knife because  _ I _ make the rules, and now everybody knows that. You hear me?”

Murphy’s never felt this feeling before, but the trust he’d placed in Bellamy is crumbling before his very eyes. “I know that.”

“Yet you think that’d I’d risk it all just to help you win a pointless fight.”

“I  _ get _ it, okay?”

“I don’t think you do, Murphy.”

“Why did you even follow me, then, huh? Just to gloat? Just to remind me that I lost?” They’re practically yelling at each other, now. Everything in him longs to step forwards and close the gap between them, but the anger and frustration acts as a wall and stops him from doing so. 

Bellamy’s quiet, then. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“You  _ what _ ?”

“Murphy.”

His hands curl at his side, and he watches as Bellamy approaches. Fury builds, and before he knows what he’s doing Murphy lets out a roar and  _ pushes _ Bellamy back. The older boy is so surprised by the action that he stumbles backwards, pure shock showing on his features. Because he’s Bellamy Blake, though, it only takes him a second to collect himself. “Fine,” he snaps, “have it your way.”

Bellamy marches off one way, Murphy the other, tears building in the latter’s eyes out of frustration. The universe has already made it perfectly clear that Murphy can’t have anything he wants, but it seems it isn’t done with the confirmation.

**iv.**

Bellamy lets Murphy overlook those working on the wall. It’s probably some form of apology, but Murphy isn’t going to push the issue - he’s never had any form of power before, and he’ll take what he can get. So what if everyone looks at him with disdain? If he has to choose between being liked and being respected, he’ll take the second, even if it’s out of fear. 

He thinks they fear Bellamy more than him, but he can live with that.

It’s the middle of the afternoon when the sky rips open above them and a torrential downpour begins. The rain soaks through Murphy’s jacket and clings to his skin, his hair falling wet and limp in his eyes. He looks up at the overcast sky, allowing the water to wash over him, closing his eyes and releasing a long breath. It feels good, he thinks, to  _ feel _ . 

The moment is interrupted by the rest of the delinquents screaming, all of them abandoning their work stations to take cover. “Hey!” Murphy shouts, but none of them stop to listen. “It’s just a little rain!”

The dirt turns to mud below him, and all too soon, Murphy’s completely alone.

He’d stay here if he could, he really would, but the rain is setting a chill in his bones and he decides that not all feelings are to be desired. The downpour obstructs his vision, but as quickly as he can he attempts to find his way to his tent, his shoes sticking in the mud as he goes.

When he enters a tent to find it already occupied by Bellamy Blake, his heart suddenly feels heavy. Bellamy’s lying down, covered in multiple blankets that he probably stole from multiple others. He’s holding an old, weathered book, the cover of which is so worn that Murphy can’t read the title. Upon his unruly entrance, Bellamy rests the book face-down on his chest and smirks at Murphy’s appearance. “You’re wet,” he says, dryly.

Murphy lets out a low sigh, frustrated at both Bellamy and himself. “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry. Wrong tent.” His teeth start to chatter on the last syllable, causing Bellamy’s brow to furrow. “I’ll - um, I’ll go.” The rain has only gotten worse outside, but the thought of sticking around is so much worse. 

“No,” Bellamy says, quickly. “No, you can stay.”

Murphy’s eyes flick upwards from the ground to meet Bellamy’s. “Um. Okay.”

Bellamy laughs at the awkwardness, then gestures for Murphy to approach. “Come on. Take your jacket off, get under the blankets with me.”

“I - really?”

“ _ Yes _ , Murphy. Come on.”

Slowly, Murphy slides out of his jacket and kicks off his muddy shoes, then sits down a little ways apart from Bellamy. He’d like to move closer, but he doesn’t know how far the invitation extends, and he can’t get past the memory of their last meeting.

“Murphy,” Bellamy says, softly, staring at him all too thoroughly. “You can come closer, if you want.”

He does. He does want. It’s embarrassing how much he wants. 

Murphy slides to his left, so that they were close enough to touch legs, if they wanted. With great flourish that only someone like him could possess, Bellamy gathers the blankets and throws them over Murphy, so that they were both covered. The warmth that settled over him was almost too much to take. That, combined with the sound of the rain outside the tent, creates an ambience of peace that Murphy desperately wants to hang onto. 

“You can keep reading,” Murphy says, after a moment. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“You weren’t. I only have one book, though, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” He won’t ever admit it aloud, but he probably wouldn’t have been able to read it, anyways. 

Bellamy looks over, studying him for a moment. “If you want, I can read out loud.”

Murphy scoffs involuntarily, before the implications of the suggestion really take hold. “You want to read me a bedtime story, Blake?”

“Oh, shut up, Murphy. Fine. I’ll read it to myself.”

“I didn’t - I didn’t say  _ no _ .” Besides - he didn’t get a birthday this year, and he thinks he deserves a present. 

Bellamy laughs, a rare moment of softness for him. The more Murphy thinks about it, he’s only ever seen Bellamy be tender when it’s just the two of them, in times like this one. “Alright. Settle in, it’s a long one.”

Murphy lets reservations aside, knowing that Bellamy would never judge him, and lies all the way down against the blankets. He closes his eyes and though he knows he’s covered by the tent, imagines the rain hitting his face and cleansing him of all his pain. 

“Romeo and Juliet,” Bellamy begins. “ _ Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene…” _

**v.**

When Bellamy kicks the crate out from under his feet, for a crime that he knows for a fact Murphy didn’t commit, he thinks that  _ Romeo and Juliet _ shouldn’t end in murder. 

He can’t breathe, but he doesn’t really care. The ache in his heart is so much worse.

He’s only up there for less than a minute, he’s sure, but during that time he remembers wishing it would rain, because he’s never felt so much pain. Maybe he deserves this for becoming a dictator in the camp. Maybe he deserves this for never overcoming his tragic backstory like his parents surely would have wanted. 

Maybe he doesn’t deserve this at all, and things like this just happen in the universe sometimes. He doubts it, though - there’s no poetry to be found in that. 

He lives, and he supposes he should be thankful, but the way Bellamy scrambles to escape him is a torment he’ll never get over.

**vi.**

Bellamy lets him live after Charlotte throws herself off a cliff. He had no hand in that - he hopes - but still, he would have understood if, in that moment of pure fury and rage, Bellamy had slit his throat and tossed his body off the cliff, too. 

It’s not all bad, though. It’s not all bad between them. 

He’s been running through the forest for only minutes, but it feels like hours when he finally stops, resting against a tree and taking a moment to catch his breath. Murphy wonders how they got to this point. His anger after the hanging was justified, wasn’t it? He thought that he and Bellamy were at a better place than that. Maybe it’s the last remnants of his teenage brain driving his mind, but he thought that,  _ maybe _ , there was something more there. 

He can live without that, he can. He can live with unrequited feelings - he’s done that his entire life. He can even live with the entire crowd against him, as long as Bellamy’s at his side, but if not...maybe it’s best he can never go back. 

_ He can never go back. He can never see him again _ . 

But it wasn’t all bad. 

In this moment of weakness, he’d like nothing more than to go back to the camp and throw himself in Bellamy’s arms. He wants to feel his warmth against him, to feel safe and secure in his presence. He wants that peace back, the one he was so sure would never leave, the one he’s now certain he’ll never feel again. 

Maybe -  _ maybe _ \- by letting him live, Bellamy was expressing the same longing. Maybe, he convinces himself, Bellamy is yearning too, and pushing Murphy away is his best option. 

But he’s not lucky enough for that to be true, and his life is nowhere near poetic enough.

Still, as he keeps on running through the forest, he can’t bring himself to hate Bellamy, and he knows deep within his heart that the feeling is mutual.

**vii.**

So what, he’s been tortured by Grounders for three days. So what, he escaped them and came back to camp, only to be treated like a criminal. It’s the look of pure disdain that Bellamy gives him that hurts the most. 

After he’s declared that he’ll kill him if he tries to stay and Clarke leaves the dropship, it’s just him and Bellamy, alone once again. He feels like death and he knows he probably looks it, too, but he tries to keep his ground while Bellamy stares down at him. 

“The Grounders should have killed you,” Bellamy spits at him. 

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Saved us all the trouble.”

“What’s your point, Bellamy?”

This takes him off guard, and Bellamy doesn’t reply for a long while, but he doesn’t change his position, either. Unlike so many times before, he doesn’t get down to Murphy’s level so that they can talk head-on; instead, Bellamy chooses to remain standing tall while Murphy doesn’t have the energy to move, let alone stand. They stare at each other, each one waiting for the other to break the stalemate and make a move. 

“You know what I think?” Murphy whispers, finally. “I think you’re afraid.”

“ _ Afraid _ ? Of what? You?”

“Maybe.”

Bellamy scoffs, but he takes a step back, clearly rattled by the declaration. “I think,” he says, “that we shouldn’t have let you back in camp. I don’t care  _ what _ happened to you - you don’t belong here.”

“You’re the one who hanged me. Why don’t you finish the job?”

Bellamy just shakes his head, distancing himself from Murphy. When he reaches the door to the dropship, he places a hand on the doorframe, turning his head back over his shoulder to say, “I am afraid of you, Murphy. That’s why you can’t stay.”

And then he’s gone, leaving only that gut punch behind him. Murphy’s afraid, too, but not  _ of _ Bellamy - he’s afraid of ever having  _ more _ . 

It’s like everything good that’s ever happened between them is forgotten, leaving only the bad. Murphy thinks, however, that when the good happens again, the bad will already be long forgotten.

**viii.**

Murphy watches Bellamy from across the dropship. His own symptoms have been improving, though with everyone preoccupied and no one to look after him, he knows he still looks - and  _ feels _ \- like a bloody mess. Bellamy, though, he can see is just entering the worst of it. Clarke’s out of commission, everyone else is busy, and he can’t stave off his own feelings, not like this. 

“Bell,” he says softly, slowly making his way across the dropship, past all the other sick delinquents. None of them stir as he takes his place next to Bellamy, grabbing some water to give to him. 

His eyes are hazy, but upon the gesture Bellamy looks up at him with distrust before quickly softening and accepting the water with a murmured  _ thank you _ . Bellamy’s hand starts to shake around the cup, but Murphy places his own hand on top of his, steadying them both. 

“Why?” Bellamy croaks, voice rough and hoarse. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because. You know why.”

“After I...After I did what I did. Why?”

“Because, Bellamy. Because it’s you.”

“I’m sorry. For what I said.”

“I know.”

Bellamy shakes his head, but this makes his head feel much worse and he squints his eyes shut in pain. Reflexively, Murphy reaches out a shaky hand, caressing his cheek in comfort. “I want to protect you,” Bellamy says. His voice is nothing but a hushed whisper, breaking on the last syllable.

Murphy’s hand freezes, but he keeps it there. “You don’t have to.”

“I do. I do and I’m sorry. You were right.”

“About what?”

“I’m afraid of how you make me feel. I don’t know what it means.”

Gently, Murphy helps Bellamy place the cup on the ground, but he doesn’t let go of his hand afterwards. He doubts that this is a moment that Bellamy will remember afterwards - it’s clear that he’s lost in the haze of the sickness, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t pursue Bellamy’s words further. It would hurt too much. Murphy, though, he knows he will take this to his grave. After everything, he thinks he deserves this. 

“You’re not safe here,” Bellamy mutters, his head lolling to the side. “Most people...want to finish what they started.”

“They still want to hang me, you mean?”

“Yeah. I think.”

“That’s okay.”

“I won’t let them. I wouldn’t let them do that.”

Murphy sighs. “You did, though.”

Somehow, through the fog, Bellamy makes eye contact with him once more. “Not again. I wouldn’t let them do that again.”

Today, in this moment of weakness, Murphy believes him and grasps his hand even tighter, feeling the reassurance of their physical closeness. “I know, Bell. I know.”

Later, when Bellamy’s mostly recovered, he’ll resume sneering and scoffing at Murphy just like before, the memory of their earlier conversation completely lost from his mind. While this injustice angers Murphy, he knows the words said then were true, and he holds that hope in his heart. 

For now, it’s enough.

**ix.**

Bellamy stands above him, a red belt around his neck, staring down with torment in his eyes. Murphy thinks that this should feel good. Finally, he’s got the great Bellamy Blake in a position where  _ he _ has power over him, and he can exact his perfect revenge. No more does he need to try and pretend to get along with the others, no more does he have to fake being a perfect worker, and no more does he have to live with the very same people who attempted to brutally murder him for no reason. He’s done it. He’s got his power, what he’s deserved all this time. 

He thinks this should feel good, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel good at all. 

It’s wrong, to look up at Bellamy in this way and see him so vulnerable. Murphy’s got all the power in this situation. He’s got the gun, he’s got Bellamy standing on a crate he could kick out at any second. He’s  _ done _ it, yet he feels so small underneath Bellamy’s gaze. It’s infuriating. Tears form in the corners of his eyes. There’s nowhere for the anger to go. 

He doesn’t want to kill him. 

“You’re a coward,” Murphy says, hoping that it stings, but it sounds pathetic. He remembers Bellamy admitting his fear to him, all those days ago, and he thinks that if they were both just a little more honest with each other, they wouldn’t have ended up here. 

Actually - no.  _ Fuck _ that. Murphy’s never been anything but honest about how he feels. It’s Bellamy who can’t seem to admit it, who can’t seem to get over himself, who can’t seem to do anything but push him away, time and time again. 

It’s push and pull, the equilibrium of things. Maybe Murphy’s mistake has been that he himself has never done the pushing. 

_ I know the king’s about to die _ . He says the words, but he hopes they aren’t true, before he too allows Bellamy to fall and steals the breath out of his lungs. Gravity pushes him down, down, down, and Murphy’s backing up out of fear, maybe, or out of guilt, he doesn’t know. 

He’s in the right. He has the power. He’s done the right thing,

_ right? _

**x.**

There’s a moment of pure, sublime bliss when he turns around after escaping out of the dropship. He imagines Bellamy watching him leave, the sun sparkling in his eyes, and sure enough, when he turns around there he is. 

_ Alive. _

They’re even now, maybe, if such a thing exists, but it doesn’t really matter to Murphy, he discovers. Bellamy’s alive, watching him go. He stops running, for a moment, to admire the delicate features of his face. After all, it might be the last time he ever sees him. He won’t last long in the woods by himself, and he just used most of their gunpowder to make his great escape, leaving the camp defenseless. 

Murphy knows all these things, but somehow he knows they will meet again.

Bellamy’s eyes keep shining as they watch him, keeping his gaze carefully trained on Murphy.  _ Come back to me _ , they seem to say, and he’s pretty certain he sees a smile creep onto Bellamy’s face the longer they keep eye contact. The smile is soft - a genuine happiness that Murphy is alive. 

He can’t return yet, but one day, he knows he’ll find his way back. It’s hard to step out of Bellamy’s magnetic pull, but he does, reassurance of their inevitability replaying in his mind.

**xi.**

Raven’s screams tear through the air, but all he can focus on is Bellamy in front of him, chained to the wall just as he is. For once, they have been brought to exactly the same level by someone other than each other. Raven’s audible pain continues, but he can’t think about it for too long without feeling a horrible, crushing guilt, and if he adds that to the strife he already feels when he looks at Bellamy, Murphy doesn’t think he’d be able to function.

But here he is, locked in a room alone with Bellamy, and his great fantasy of their reunion shattered at his feet. He thought Bellamy would be overjoyed to see him, maybe congratulate him on staying alive so long, but instead he got a meeting full of violence and anger. So, yeah, sue him for wanting Bellamy to understand his pain. “That was me,” he says, “at the Grounder camp. I did everything I could not to scream, but eventually...”

“But eventually, you broke and you told them everything.”

“And you wouldn’t have, because you’re better than me.” And there it is - plain and simple, laid out for all to see. An explanation of their constant struggle for power, perhaps, or a reason for this stupid back-and-forth they do. This is the chance, Murphy thinks, for Bellamy to stop his tirade and realize that they belong side-by-side. 

It’s without hesitation that Bellamy says, “Damn right.”

It continues on some more, but they’re dancing in circles rather than actually going anywhere. Murphy wonders if they’re doomed to do this forever, and the anger of his circumstances start to get the better of him. “You just keep believing that,” he says, “even if you are in here, just like me.”

“I’m  _ nothing _ like you.”

“Oh, yeah? Nothing like me? Tell that to Kane, or the wall you’re chained to.”

“Murphy-”

“Tell that to the  _ rope _ you put around my  _ neck _ .”

“You did the same to me!”

Murphy’s eyes fall to the floor, his voice growing soft. “Yeah, but you did it first, and that’s the difference.”

“I’m not perfect,” Bellamy cries, “and I’m not some saint, like you seem to think I am.”

“No,” Murphy agrees, so quietly that he doubts Bellamy can hear him. “No, you’re really not.”

**xii.**

Saint or not, he saves Bellamy’s life anyways. 

“I told you I wouldn’t drop you,” he says, breath heavy as he stares at Bellamy, a red seatbelt held tight in his grip. 

Bellamy’s gaze is tender. Rather than just his eyes, in this moment Murphy thinks Bellamy’s whole being shines, like a golden aura or halo that announces to him and the world that he is someone special, someone pure. Murphy doesn’t need the universe to tell him that. He’s always known.

“I believed you,” Bellamy replies, and he looks like he’d like to say more, but Finn and Monroe are just a little ways off, helping the girl Bellamy risked everything to rescue. Murphy glances over at them, and seeing them substantially distracted, he doesn’t move.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah?”

“If it were me,” he says, “would you have saved me, too?”

Bellamy’s eyes widen like moons, jaw dropping ever so slightly, completely taken aback by the query. “Yes.” It’s as if he can’t believe that Murphy would ever have doubts at it, despite everything that’s happened between them. “Of course I would.”

Murphy nods, and even if he doesn’t quite believe it, it’s nice to hear. Bellamy’s words mimic a blanket, covering every inch of him in warmth. It feels peaceful, then, just to sit near the cliffside, wind rustling Bellamy’s hair in a way that can only be expressed as godly. He thinks he’d like to stay there forever.

But it can’t last. The peaceful moments never can. 

As he prepares to leave with Finn, he turns around one last time, because he and Bellamy always leave each other’s company in moments that quantify as epic. Bellamy stands just a little ways behind the others, the purest form of melancholy evident on his face. He can’t leave him like that - it’s not fair. 

“Hey,” he says, “parting, such sweet sorrow, right?”

And if he’s not mistaken, he sees Bellamy laugh. He knows he’ll keep that image in his mind up until the ’morrow.

**xiii.**

“John Murphy,” Byrne says, regarding him with a cold and calculated look that she always seems to possess. “You were the arsonist, is that right?”

After returning to the camp with a murderous Finn in tow, he’d been told to enter a small room - not restrained, this time - and await further instructions. With the outside threat worse than ever, and the entire Ark on the ground, Murphy figures he better hang around a little longer and  _ not _ try to escape, so he did as he was told. Major Byrne had come in not too much later, and he was not a fan of the power trip she was using over him. “If we could skip the niceties,” he says, dryly, “am I getting a pardon, or not?”

Byrne’s lips tighten, but she gives him a curt nod. “Yes. The pardon we gave all of you before we sent you to the ground applies for everything that happened before we arrived.”

“Great. Thanks.” 

He moves to leave, but Byrne holds out an arm, stopping his retreat. “That pardon does not extend beyond this point. The same rules we had on the Ark still hold now, and if my memory serves, you’re over eighteen now.”

Murphy takes a breath, restraining the impulse to punch her, and pushes her arm out of the way instead. “Sure thing,” he says, leaving the room as quickly as possible. 

He doesn’t get a moment of isolation, though, because Bellamy’s standing outside in the hallway, leaning against the wall to emphasize that he’s all kinds of cool that Murphy isn’t. “You got pardoned, then.”

Murphy gives him a look of disappointment. “What else were they going to do?” He doesn’t know why Bellamy’s acting this way, not when they had just reconciled on the cliff - or had they?

“Maybe I should go in there and tell Byrne you murdered two of our people, and tried to kill me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to tell her how you destroyed Raven’s radio, which caused the Ark to perform The Culling,” Murphy replies, attempting to lean against the wall across from Bellamy, but looking much less cool while doing so. Finn had told him a lot that he didn’t know from his time away from camp, that story being one of them, and the brief look of shock that passes over Bellamy’s face confirms the truth of that one. 

“I’m not proud of that.”

“Sure, but you think you deserve a pardon, and I don’t?”

Bellamy stands up straight, crossing his arms in defiance. “I do, actually. Like I said - I’m not proud of what I’ve done. But I bet you’re proud of killing Myles, aren’t you?”

_ No. Not at all. _ “I did what I had to do.”

Bellamy’s scoff ignites a fire in Murphy’s chest. “Of course you did. And you’d do it again, right?”

“So what if I would?”

“You really think the Council will be fine with someone like you just wandering around the camp?”

“It’s already done.”

“It always is.” And with that, Bellamy turns and walks down the hallway, his pace too quick, too ready to put distance between them. The fire in Murphy’s chest slowly dies down to a dull ache that settles into his bones. It’s always going to be like this between them, he figures - a constant back and forth, a test of wills, a constant competition of pride that neither of them will ever, ever win. 

He’s exhausted.

**xiv.**

He tries to sit with Clarke for a bit, because he really does feel sympathy for her pain. Murphy’s actually, honestly apologetic for what went down at the Grounder village and he knows that Finn’s actions are impacting her. However, when he approached her and tried to make her laugh (it’s the only kind of comfort he sort of knows how to do), she essentially told him to  _ fuck off _ , and now he’s not too sure what to do. 

Murphy doesn’t have any other connections at camp, except for - well.  _ Him _ . His head deters him, but his heart thinks it’s worth one more shot, so he finds his way to the Ark’s supply room. 

Obviously, the place is in shambles, and nobody has bothered to properly organize the food rations that survived the journey to the ground. Even better for him, the room is unguarded. With a newfound motivation, Murphy looks through the selections, picking a very select products and flavours and putting them all in an old, large pot that he doubts anyone will miss.

Back on the Ark, when his family was whole, he remembers his father used to make a large, elaborate meal whenever he’d done something to make his mother angry. Regardless how large or small the argument, his father wouldn’t hesitate to fill their quarters with pleasant aromas as his way of apology. “Cooking is a great gesture,” he’d taught Murphy, and once he’d gotten a little older, his father had started teaching him how to balance flavours and develop his own palate. 

They never finished Murphy’s education, but he thinks he remembers enough. 

The final product isn’t perfect. Originally meant as a soup, it turns into a much thicker stew, but it’s pleasantly edible and he’s proud of it. Nobody has entered the room since he’s been using it, so he puts back what he can and ladles the finished product into a smaller bowl, finds a spoon, and then heads out in search of Bellamy.

It doesn’t take him too long to find him - he’s sitting alone outside, close to a fire, a concentrated look of despair on his face. With a small breath he takes in for courage, Murphy slides into the seat next to him and pushes the bowl towards Bellamy, trying to give him a genuine smile. 

“Um,” Bellamy says, looking back and forth between the stew and Murphy, “what is this?”

“It’s, um - it’s a gift,” Murphy answers, scrambling for what to say. 

“A - wait, you made this?”

“Yeah.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. “I didn’t - I didn’t know you could cook.”

Sheepishly, Murphy grins. “I’m full of surprises.”

Gingerly, Bellamy lifts a spoonful to his mouth. “Smells nice,” he says, and then slowly tastes a bit. If possible, his eyes widen even more. “Oh my god, Murphy, this is really good.”

Genuine pride washes over him as he watches Bellamy devour another spoonful. “Thank you.”

After his third helping, Bellamy looks at the empty space on the table in front of Murphy, and furrows his brow. “You’re not eating any?”

“No, no - it’s for you.”

“Well,  _ that _ doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s - It’s an apology. It’s for you, not me.”

Bellamy lets out a breath, nodding slightly and setting down the spoon to look Murphy fully in the eyes. “You don’t have to apologize to me. You know that, right?”

“I do, though.”

“No, you don’t. You never have.” Bellamy’s eyes are lit up by the firelight, his hand reaching across the table to grab Murphy’s, his thumb drawing careful circles against his palm in comfort.

And it sounds wrong, but in this moment, maybe it has some validity.

**xv.**

He’s got to halfway through the Dead Zone when Bellamy Blake enters his mind and refuses to leave.

Jaha’s allowed the travelling party to rest for the night, so he’s sitting in the dirt, half a water bottle next to him as his only possession. He knows he should save it, but he takes a delicate sip, trying to distract himself from the thought of Bellamy’s stupid face. 

“Are you alright, John?” Jaha asks. He’s got a small fire going, but none of the warmth seems to reach him. 

“Yeah. Just - thinking.”

Jaha nods sagely, but Murphy’s learning the man isn’t all that wise. “It’s best to leave thoughts behind. It’s easier to look forwards if you do.”

Maybe there’s some truth there, but it doesn’t give him comfort. “You still look troubled,” Jaha says, somehow surprised that his one line of advice didn’t solve the problem. “Would you care to share your thoughts, John?”

_ Not really _ , but he also knows neither of them are going to sleep anytime soon. “You really want to know?”

“I do.”

He supposes it doesn’t really matter. They’re both probably going to die in a couple days. Honestly, he doesn’t think they’re ever going to make it out of the Dead Zone. “I’m thinking about Bellamy Blake.”

Jaha’s lips purse, and he nods. It’s obvious he isn’t sure what advice to give, which is forcing his facade to falter. “I see,” he says. “What about him?”

“I wonder if he knows I left,” he says, “and I wonder if he misses me.”

“Oh, John,” Jaha says, laughing, “young love truly is something else, isn’t it?”

“No,” Murphy says, quickly. “No, it’s not that. Really.”

“And yet, out here in the desert, you’re thinking of him - and what he’s thinking about.”

“Yeah, but it’s different.”

“How so?”

“It just  _ is _ , okay?”

Jaha puts his hands up in a mock surrender. “Alright. Even so, you and I both know that he’s best left in your past, John. It’s time to start looking towards your future.”

Murphy sighs, looking away from Jaha and focuses his gaze on the stars. He wonders if Bellamy’s looking at the same sky, far, far away. It’s possible, but it’s much less probable that he’s thinking of Murphy while he’s doing so. That doesn’t hurt him, necessarily. 

It’s the thought that Bellamy doesn’t miss him at all that increases the ache in his bones. He’s tired of it, he really is, and he knows that he’s probably right - there’s no reason that Bellamy would miss him at all. After all, he’s never given Murphy any reason to think otherwise. And how dare he? How  _ dare _ he keep all his feelings to himself?

A harsh reality sinks into Murphy’s skin, then - what if Bellamy doesn’t have any feelings to share?

“I think you’re right,” Murphy says, softly, and Jaha smiles, considering this another job well done on his part. Still, Murphy looks up at the stars. The physical distance between him and Bellamy has never been so great. Maybe it’s better this way.

**xvi.**

“Why are you here, Murphy?”

It’s been a long, long time since he’s stood alone with Bellamy Blake - too long, he decides, as Murphy feelings a renewed energy course through his entire being. The adrenaline he feels is not because of their situation, it is due to his company. He’s older now, see, and far less naive. 

He’s less naive, so he notices Bellamy’s gaze settle on his lips for far too many seconds. He sees the way his stance softens, the way he invites Murphy to draw closer, the way he develops an automatic affectionate tone when he speaks to him. Murphy thinks he knows what all this means, but he’s never been quite sure. 

“Bellamy,” he says, softly. He loves the way his name sounds on his tongue, and he loves the way it sounds aloud even more. “You’re not the only one here trying to save someone you care about.”

And yes, he’s talking about Emori and Bellamy’s here for Clarke, but once again Bellamy’s gaze settles on his lips and they’re all alone in this elevator, and it’s such a long way to the top floor. He can still feel the warmth Bellamy’s touch gave him, when he pulled him upright, and as the feeling overtakes him he reaches out and pulls Bellamy towards him. His free hand rests on Bellamy’s cheek and he kisses him softly, tenderly, biting his bottom lip as he pulls away.

He doesn’t retreat, instead looking in Bellamy’s eyes for confirmation, and when he sees the way he’s smiling, he kisses him again. This time it’s fiery, full of passion, full of the feelings they’ve both been bottling up and holding down for far too long. 

The elevator shakes, indicating they’ve almost reached the top. Though he doesn’t want to, Murphy draws away, a real smile on his face. “Okay,” he says, “now let’s go save the world.”

Bellamy returns his warm gaze. The elevator doors open, and each of them turn to face the danger ahead, exiting at exactly the same time, side by side.

**xvii.**

Emori sobs as he holds her in his arms. Murphy doesn’t do anything other than embrace her tightly, rubbing her back as comfortingly as he can. He knows that all the pain she’s ever felt has just returned at once, and he can’t imagine how that must feel. He knows if it were him, he doubts he’d be able to overcome it. 

Over her shoulder, he locks eyes with Bellamy, who seems to still be in shock over Octavia’s brutal murder of Pike. The bastard had it coming, no one would dispute that, but he knows that seeing his sister commit such an act must have shaken him. Deep down, Murphy wants to go over there and hug him, too, and try to bring him the comfort he deserves.

But he doesn’t move away from Emori. He just stares.

Bellamy takes one step forwards, but he keeps eyeing Emori, an unfamiliar face to him that he doesn’t know how to react to. No doubt that by now he’s figured out she’s who Murphy was referencing earlier, and no doubt he’s not sure what it all meant before.  _ Don’t overcomplicate it _ , Murphy wants to scream, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything. 

He just stares, and watches as Bellamy thinks otherwise and takes several steps away, building the walls they’ve put in between them back up.

**xviii.**

The caves are dimly lit, but he sees Bellamy’s eyes latch onto him as he approaches. “Bellamy, pay attention,” Indra says, but Bellamy’s gaze lingers a little longer, looking purposefully at Murphy’s lips and smirking when he knows that Murphy notices. 

When Bellamy passes over his gun, there’s a moment where they brush hands, and the contact sends electricity flowing through Murphy’s skin. He nods, a remembrance of the cliff’s edge, the first time that he gave him a gun.

In that moment, Murphy knows that they’ve reached their own version of the ’morrow, and while he’s not naive enough to think that anything could come of this, he thinks that this moment and all the others like it that they can steal is finally what they deserve.

**xix.**

So maybe they don’t have all that they deserve, not yet.

When Abby called him into Bellamy’s cell, he ran in out of a genuine fear. The whole time he’s been “guarding” him, he’s been afraid of what Bellamy could do, to himself most of all. Nothing in the world, not even Murphy, could stop him from going after his sister and trying to save her. They should all know that by now.

Still, though, he has to try, because if he succeeds, then he, Emori, and Bellamy are guaranteed to survive Praimfaya together. And yet.

That may be why he’s so taken aback when Bellamy, now free of his restraints, launches himself at Murphy, immediately grabbing hold of his neck in a chokehold. For a second, he flashes back to the dropship camp, to the first rope that slid around his throat, but Bellamy’s got a way of grounding him even when he’s trying to kill him.

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy whispers, next to his ear, so softly that he doubts Abby hears it. It doesn’t do much to console him, though, as he chokes on the air he’s not breathing in and his limbs grow limp, consciousness threatening to leave at any moment. As his muscles fall slack and his eyes slip shut, he’s vaguely aware of Bellamy releasing him and then placing him gently on a soft surface, but it doesn’t do anything to take away the violation of trust that just occurred. 

He guesses that none of it meant anything, if it’s so easy for Bellamy to push him away like this, time and time again. Maybe he was a fool to hope that it did.

Maybe he’s a fool, because he thinks that it still can.

**xx.**

_ He falls into a haze, then, allowing his hold on consciousness to wither away for a moment. Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with the pain that comes from knowing Bellamy chose someone else over him, yet again. _

_ He spends this time remembering how he cared for Bellamy’s wrists, even when Bellamy wasn’t fully awake to appreciate it. He didn’t need recognition, or even a thanks - he wanted to help. He still does.  _

_ It reminds him of the first time he did so, way back when, when he brought the virus into camp and watched it take hold of Bellamy. Back then, he’d cared for him, and by doing so they’d had one of the only real, raw conversations they’ve ever had.  _

_ “I’m afraid of how you make me feel,” Bellamy had said, and Murphy hadn’t understood, not fully, not then. But he’s older now, more jaded when it comes to things like this. He understands, now, he thinks, and he feels the same way. _

_ Back in the elevator, he’d admitted how he felt, in a way. What if he does that now? What if he’s honest? There are so many implications, so many things standing in the way. Who’s he to say what he wants? Who’s he to get what he deserves? _

_ He doesn’t deserve Bellamy’s love, he thinks, but it doesn’t mean he can’t long for it. _

**xxi.**

They haven’t spoken since Bellamy stole the air from Murphy’s lungs, which might explain the pure fury Murphy feels when he looks at Bellamy and his stupid, judgemental face. “What are you  _ really _ doing here, Murphy?” he asks, as if he’s got the right at this point to question his intentions.

“We were safe, in the bunker,” he says,  _ until you ruined it _ . Bellamy raises an eyebrow, still questioning, so Murphy quickly amends, “Emori and I. We were safe. Do you really think our people will waste a spot on Emori? On me?”

He says it this way to make Bellamy feel bad, but there’s no evidence that his words have pierced his stupid, thick skull. “We can’t all be essential personnel,” he finishes, spitting the words with as much spite as he can from within a hazmat suit. 

“I didn’t want this to happen,” Bellamy says, which only makes Murphy grow angrier. 

“No, you never do,” he says, stepping away from Bellamy. In this moment, he wants to put as much distance as he can between the two of them. “You never  _ want _ things like this to happen, but we always end up here, don’t we?”

“Murphy-”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you  _ choked _ me instead of just  _ talking _ to me!” he says, annoyed that he can feel tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, and even more annoyed that he can’t wipe them away. Instead, they sit there inside his suit, on display for Bellamy to see. 

Perhaps it’s for the best that he doesn’t say anything, or try to make Murphy stay as he keeps on walking away from him. For once, in a rare moment, Murphy’s able to take control and  _ push _ . 

It’s an equilibrium. It’s got to be.

**xxii.**

They arrive on the Ring full of breathless excitement, the familiar  _ hums _ of the mechanical contraption the best sound they’ve ever heard. When they’ve recovered their breath, Murphy hugs Emori, but he’s drawn to Bellamy who stands by himself. 

“I’m sorry she didn’t make it,” he says. Bellamy seems surprised that Murphy’s talking to him, let alone sympathizing, but he nods his thanks. The previous tension between them is better left on Earth, Murphy decides. This place, despite being very old, can be a place that they start anew. 

He doesn’t know how to do that, but he figures with Bellamy by his side, he can figure it out. 

“I’m glad that you came,” Bellamy says, after a moment of silence. “Because you were right. I don’t know how things turned out for our people in the bunker, but…”

“I know,” Murphy says, stopping him. “I know how it would have gone, for me, anyways.”

“Murphy…” Bellamy pauses, putting one of his hands on Murphy’s shoulder and giving it a reaffirming squeeze, “I don’t know about the bunker, but up here, you’re essential personnel, okay?”

Murphy gives him a soft smile that’s not all that genuine, but trying to be. “Oh, you don’t have to say that. I don’t have any special skills.”

“You are,” Bellamy insists. “You are to me.”

And he thinks he can live with that. 

**xxii.**

The equilibrium has been getting a bit too steady, and Murphy’s not sure how to cope with life when it’s not a constant race of tumultuous ups and downs, especially where Bellamy is concerned.

It’s only been a couple days, and in the time it’s taken for Monty to attempt to develop the first batch of algae, Murphy has achieved exactly  _ nothing _ . Raven’s got a list going of all the Ark’s systems and what she can do to solve them, and Emori’s already become her assistant. Harper’s been helping Monty get the algae prepared as quickly as possible, while Bellamy and Echo have taken inventory of their supplies in every other area and done what they can to make sure they’re set up for the next five years. 

Murphy tried to check out the medical wing. Without Clarke around, he figured it would help to get a semblance of a medical inventory going, but the writing on the labels was too small for him to read and he discovered quickly that he really didn’t know much about anything, so that project was a bust. 

Essential personnel. Sure. 

He takes to walking, mostly, to pass the time. Emori’s never around, and she’s getting more and more tired of him as the days went on. Murphy spends each morning trying to convince her to stay in bed with him a little longer, but she’s out the door before he can get a second sentence out, shooting him a disapproving look before she goes. So, he walks to vent out his frustrations, aimlessly passing the time and running his hands along the walls of the Ring that he spent so much time in as a child. 

Sometimes, memories come out of the shadows and dance in front of Murphy’s eyes, cruel reminders of the things he’s lost and the things he’ll never get back. In moments like this, he finds himself going to the viewport to catch a glimpse of the roaring inferno that is the Earth, to remind himself that things could always be worse, or - something like that. He’s never been that poetic. 

It’s here, on one of those days, that he finds Bellamy, already sitting in front of the viewport, staring down at the planet they orbit. Murphy’s approaching from behind, but then thinks better of it, and starts to turn away so as not to disturb him.

“You can stay, you know.”

Murphy freezes mid-step, slowly turning back around to gaze at Bellamy, but he stays a fair amount of distance away from him, stopping in place. “That’s - I’m alright.”

“Are you, though?”

“Bellamy, let’s not get into this, not now.”

“Murphy. You don’t have to lie to me. Something’s been going on with you, Emori knows it too.”

And this, this makes him angry, the image of a burning Earth reflecting in his eyes. Bellamy, sitting in front of the window, garners a halo of hellfire around his head. “I said  _ drop _ it.”

“Murphy, I’ll understand.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Bellamy’s unwavering kindness forces something inside Murphy to snap, and suddenly he’s shouting. “No, you  _ wouldn’t _ , because you’ve never been worthless in your life!”

He doesn’t move away from the viewport, but Bellamy’s head falls. “You’re not worthless, Murphy.”

In response, Murphy can only scoff, filled with a sudden desire to be anywhere else. “I told you, you wouldn’t understand.” He doesn’t allow Bellamy to answer, and instead, stalks off down the hallway. 

It’s much later that same day that Monty calls them all to the kitchens, where he’s spent all his time attempting to make the first batch of algae. He looks anxious as he explains, “I don’t know if I got this right, but if I didn’t, it could be toxic.”

“You got it,” Harper whispers to him, affirmingly, and the way the pair’s hands clasp together makes something inside Murphy ache. 

Monty takes a deep breath before continuing, “What I’m saying is, someone’s gotta test it. So, I’ll do that, and then we’ll see if it’s safe for everyone.”

“No way,” Bellamy says, instantly. “I know Harper’s been learning, but you’re the expert at this stuff, Monty. If it  _ is _ toxic...we can’t lose you.”

Deep inside, Murphy knows the implication isn’t there, and he’s nowhere on Bellamy’s mind, but in an instant he’s back to Becca’s lab and Emori’s about to be put in a radiation chamber.  _ We’ll do better _ , Bellamy always preached now, and yet here they were, back in the same old story. 

“Fine,” he sighs, though nobody’s asked anything of him (yet), “give it to me. I’ll do it.”

“No.”

“ _ Someone’s _ got to do it, Bellamy,” he says, ignoring his and Emori’s wide-eyed gazes. “It’s probably fine, anyways. Let’s get it over with.”

So that’s how he finds himself being the first to taste Monty’s algae, the rest of the Ring’s occupants gathered around him like he’s a lab rat, which - in this case, he supposes he is. The taste is fine, surprisingly. “Salty,” he remarks.

Monty gives him a hint of a smile but the concern doesn’t leave his face. “Is that all? How do you feel?”

He’s about to answer that he’s absolutely fine, even just if it meant everyone would stop staring at him, but very suddenly the world around him begins to spin and he grabs the edge of the table in support. A nonsensical syllable is about all he manages to say before his legs go numb and he’s crashing down, nobody prepared enough to catch his fall. 

As the world dims, the only thing Murphy thinks is  _ finally, a fucking good night’s sleep.  _

**xxiii.**

He wakes slowly, yet too suddenly. Every muscle in his body aches, but Murphy grows aware enough to tell that he’s in a bed, a small table next to it, but otherwise the room is void of both belongings and people. As he gradually sits up, a splash of colour demands his attention, and his vision focuses in on a small, clear vase with three bright orange flowers sitting inside. 

A few more minutes go by before he grows bored and he stands, using the table for support. The ache within only gets worse with each step he takes, but he makes it to the door, grabbing hold of the frame to keep himself upright. As he looks out in the hall, his eyes land on Bellamy, sitting just outside, clearly asleep. 

“Bell,” he says, his voice hoarse from disuse. Instantly, Bellamy stirs, blinking up at him with tired eyes. Upon seeing who it is, he intakes a sharp breath, practically leaping to his feet. 

“Murphy, oh my god,” he says, “I really thought you were going to leave me.” The words barely a whisper, but there’s no one else around. The moment and the message that comes with it is meant just for them. 

He’s exhausted, but seeing Bellamy here fills Murphy with energy. “Oh, you should know by now that you’re stuck with me.”

And Bellamy’s standing only inches away from him, but that’s okay, and it’s  _ really _ okay when he slides a hand behind Murphy’s neck and pulls him in for a soft kiss, full of passion. Bellamy’s a pillar of strength for him, and the two stay like that for both too long and not long enough. 

They break apart, and Murphy knows that here, he has a decision - yet, when Bellamy’s concerned, his innermost desires have always been easy to figure out. With a quick turn of the head, Murphy pulls Bellamy back into the room, sliding the door closed as they enter. 

“Thanks for the flowers,” he says, and he’s pretty sure Bellamy begins to blush. 

“Calla lilies,” Bellamy replies. “Monty grew them. I thought - they’d be a nice touch.”

“They are,” Murphy replies, and then they’re both in the bed and words don’t matter so much anymore. 

Afterwards, Murphy has the best night’s sleep of his life. 

**xiv.**

Murphy had a one-night stand with Bellamy, and that’s fine in principle, but he wakes the next morning and tries to get dressed as quickly and quietly as possible. Surprise, surprise, though - he doesn’t succeed, and Bellamy wakes before he’s left. 

“Hey,” he says, and Murphy would swoon at his morning voice if he wasn’t so guilty, “where are you running off to?”

“Emori,” he says, “I have to - talk to her.”

“She’ll be thrilled that you’re awake.”

“Yeah, nobody  _ told _ her, which isn’t fair, and then -  _ this _ , this is not fair to her at all. We shouldn’t have done this. You know that.”

Bellamy sits up, looking at him with pure melancholy. “I don’t think it was a mistake, Murphy.”

“Yeah, well, I do.”

“I...okay.”

Distantly, Murphy remembers calling Bellamy a coward for being unable to talk about his feelings, especially where Murphy was concerned. He almost laughs at how the situation has changed - faced with the possibility of something real and concrete with Bellamy, he turns tail at the first opportunity and runs away. 

“At least take the flowers,” Bellamy says. “Please.”

Murphy narrows his eyes as his gaze lands on the calla lilies, already beginning to droop. “I can’t,” he says, though he wishes he could, and then he’s out the door.

**xv.**

Sure, getting shot - twice - hurts. But as the door to the ship closes behind them and the engines fire up, the look of pure adoration in Bellamy’s eyes makes all of it worth it. Despite the absolute agony burning through his shoulder, he smiles and laughs, the first genuine feeling of happiness he’s felt in a long, long time.

The ship shakes, then, blasting off away from the Earth once and for all. The sudden jostling causes Monty to fall one way and Bellamy the other, Murphy losing all sense of footing. Like instinct, though, he gravitates towards Bellamy, but the constant motion of the ship as it rocks and rises up and away from the cursed Earth causes the pair to twist upon landing. As the motion ceases and the engines even out, nuclear rockets left in the rear-view, Murphy finds himself lying flat on his back, Bellamy on top of him, hands at either side of Murphy's body, trapping him.

"Oh. Hi," Murphy says, before he can stop himself. It's embarrassing enough that, if asked about later, he'd blame the moment on blood loss. 

"Hi," Bellamy replies, smiling wide. His face is dirty and his body is bruised, but he is very much intact, and very much alive.

"I'm happy you're not dead," Murphy says. 

"Me, too. You had me worried for a moment."

"Oh. Sorry."

Bellamy chuckles softly. "Don't do it again, okay?"

And it's this moment that takes Murphy back, to before, when things were simpler. It was easier when he was younger and their situation carried less nuance, less strings - before, it was just a matter of overcoming fear, and Murphy thought he'd done that pretty well. He thought he’d laid it all out there and it was Bellamy’s arrogant, stupid sense of self-righteousness that was getting in between them. Yet, now, he knows Bellamy’s changed, and so has he. Sure, they’ve got more shared history, but - 

Maybe it doesn’t have to be this complicated, he decides. Maybe it can just be a decision to take this moment as it stands, and then move on in the future. Maybe.

He thinks all this, but then the adrenaline fades and the pain returns, showing plainly on his face. Monty and Emori have both recovered at this point, and even Clarke is making their way over. 

Maybe he can do this.  _ Maybe _ .

**xvi.**

After 125 years of blissful rest, Bellamy’s face is the first one he sees when his cryochamber is disengaged and Murphy wakes. “What  _ year _ is it?” he asks, before seeing the look Bellamy’s carrying and instantly understanding something has gone wrong.

“There’s something you should see,” Bellamy says, and Murphy looks around, seeing only Raven, Emori and Echo being woken, Clarke standing off to the side, hovering somewhere around Madi’s chamber. There’s someone else, too, who, if Murphy looks at just right, kind of reminds him of both - 

Monty and Harper are nowhere to be seen, and that’s when he knows.

He watches the video, anyways, because that’s what Monty would have wanted him to do, and he tries to hide the tears that prick at his eyes because that’s what he has learned to do. Still, it’s one of the hardest things he’s done. He admits he didn’t connect with Harper as well as he’d have liked to, but he knows she was kind and smart and wonderful, and Monty was someone that Murphy was only starting to bond with. He wasn’t even among the first to be woken and to be told the news, though that’s not something he can justly feel anger for, because in what world would Murphy be the first choice? And now? 

Now he has absolutely  _ nothing _ .

He’s the first to leave the room, furiously stomping out in a way that is extremely childish, but feels justified based on the weight of the moment. 

“Murphy, wait!” It’s Bellamy following him, because of course it is. 

“Not now.”

“ _ Please _ , you don’t have to keep isolating yourself when you feel something!”

It’s a slap in the face, but he’s never been one to argue with the truth. “I can, actually, and I’ll keep doing it,  _ thanks so much _ .”

“I won’t let you.”

“Shut the  _ fuck _ up, Bellamy!” he yells, and he really doesn’t care if the whole ship hears, because he’s angry, and he thinks after all this time he’s entitled to it. “You don’t know me. You never have, and you never will, so stop trying, and leave me  _ alone _ !”

He expects to see fury on Bellamy’s face when he risks a glance back, but he only sees sadness. “You’re wrong,” he says. “I do know you. I do, and that scares you.”

And yeah, he’s never been one to argue with the truth, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it, either.

**xvii.**

Even after 125 years of standstill in their story, Bellamy’s running to his side the moment he’s hurt. 

He’s given him no reason to care. Ever since they woke, he’s been an absolute monster, showing no kindness and giving no mercy. It’s a futile attempt to distance himself from everyone, an old coping mechanism that is so, so easy to fall back onto, but after all this time it seems Bellamy’s not quite so easy to fool. Less impulsive and more analytical than before, Bellamy’s developed the skill to separate Murphy’s words from his feelings, and it’s...refreshing.

Still, though, for a moment he’s surprised that Bellamy’s so quick to pull his head into his lap as he lies on the ground. Later, they’ll figure out what’s going on with Emori, and they’ll patch up his wound, and they’ll forge a new path, on this new moon. 

But this moment of intimacy is more than just that - it’s confirmation; it’s a portrayal of trust. It’s Bellamy’s way of shouting as loud as he can that  _ they’re in this together _ without ever having to say a word.

**xviii.**

It all falls apart too quickly. 

While Murphy’s trying to stare Bellamy down, red sun toxin swimming through the air, he tries to keep reminding himself that this is not Bellamy’s fault, and this  _ will _ pass, but it’s getting harder and harder to remember the longer it takes for the effects to pass. 

“You and me, just a couple of guys stuck on a moon,” Murphy’s saying. It’s a last ditch attempt to make an emotional appeal, moreso because he knows he could never hurt Bellamy, not intentionally, not like this. “Filled with man-eating bugs and toxic plants that turn people who - who  _ love _ each other into homicidal maniacs.” He hasn’t said that in a long time, though they both objectively know it to be true - still, he figures Bellamy won’t remember this, anyways. Probably. Hopefully.

“John Murphy, court jester,” Bellamy sneers, and it  _ would _ be funny if it weren’t so goddamn terrifying.

“Beats useless.”

“Not by much.”

And, well - yeah.

Bellamy steps towards him, then, and instinctually Murphy steps back. He knows now that it has nothing to do with the situation they’re in - it’s just what he  _ does _ when it comes to Bellamy, as if the two of them are on either end of some awful game of tug-of-war and both are intent on winning. It’s all push and pull with them. The universe keeps throwing horrible, twisted situations at them and yet, each time, they overcome, only to fall in the same emotional traps yet again. They never win, and yet, they’ve never lost.

Murphy thinks he’s getting tired of the equilibrium, because right now, it doesn’t feel all that equal.

He thinks about all this while Bellamy shoves him under the water and he takes in mouthfuls, only because he’s trying to scream. It doesn’t work, though - no audible sound comes out, and he’s dead a minute later.

Maybe there’s no poetry in the universe, but if there’s ever been a poetic ending, it’s this one. In this world, he guesses it’s fitting that  _ Romeo and Juliet _ ends with murder.

**xxix.**

“ _ I’m sorry _ ,” Bellamy whispers, and their hands meet, and so do their souls.

“It’s not your fault, man,” Murphy replies, and he means it. None of it is; none of it ever has been. 

**xxx.**

“You think we care about that traitor?” Bellamy yells, and yes, actually Murphy thinks he does, but it doesn’t make the words sting any less. 

If a knife wasn’t being pressed to his throat, Murphy thinks he’d take this moment and have a real confrontation with Bellamy. It’s high time they both stop their own bullshit, he thinks, and they just get  _ on _ with it. Emori’s told him, many times, that she can see plain and simple that he’s in love with Bellamy, and while he hasn’t had  _ that _ conversation with Echo, Emori’s convinced she feels the same way. 

It all sounds so easy, except they’re in a desolate cornfield on a strange moon, and a body-snatched Clarke is holding a knife to his throat, and Bellamy doesn’t seem to really  _ care _ all that much.

Call it masochistic, maybe, but he’s almost happy when Bellamy runs off with Josephine, leaving him lying alone and bleeding in the field. Sanctum guards will find him, sure, but at least he won’t have to deal with the stupid, arrogant, self-righteous Bellamy Blake that he honestly would be fine with never, ever seeing again.

**xxxi.**

John Murphy is the first to admit that sometimes, he’s a liar.

When he sees Bellamy again, it’s one of the best, lightest moments of his life. For once, he feels a surge of intense gratitude at the universe for bringing them both into this moment, even if he’s dressed in Prime clothing and made to look like Daniel Lee, a man who he’d never even known. 

He waits, purposefully, until Bellamy’s looking right at him, and then he winks. He’s trying to use a little to say a lot, and he hopes that it works. It’s a  _ I’m still me _ wink - it’s a  _ we have the upper hand _ wink, too. He hopes Bellamy gets a sense of the whole plan as Emori keeps speaking, pretending to be Kaylee Lee, and he hopes that all the animosity forced between them has faded away, along with all the rest of their checkered history.

Most of all, he wants to say  _ I’m still me,  _ and  _ you’re still you _ , and none of the rest really matters.

As they walk through the streets of Sanctum, under his breath, Murphy whispers, “ _ Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things...some shall be pardoned, and some punished.” _

It’s like he can feel the rain hitting his skin again as he hears Bellamy laugh next to him, softly. “ _ For never was a story of more woe _ ,” Bellamy says, “ _ than this of Juliet and her Romeo.” _

Their eyes meet in the darkness, and for once, Murphy’s certain that his shine just as much as Bellamy’s do.

**the ending;**

The sun is shining as Murphy exits their cottage, finding Bellamy already outside. Across the farms, they can see the whole city of Sanctum, silhouetted against the sky. Most of their people found a home there, but the two of them preferred a guarantee of a life of peace.

“You’re up early,” Murphy says. Bellamy’s lying in their hammock, eyes closed, but he opens one upon Murphy’s approach.

“Nicholas woke me,” Bellamy says, and sure enough, their resident rooster stands across the field, forever claiming his dominance. Seemingly he belonged to no one, but the creature had taken a liking to their farm after they’d moved in and set up their cottage. Out of fondness, Murphy had given him his name.

They stay in silence for a while, enjoying the weather and the presence of each other’s company, before Murphy speaks up, “Got room for one more?”

Bellamy chuckles, a sound that Murphy’s grown to love even more over the years. “For you? Always.”

It doesn’t take more than that for Murphy to climb into the hammock next to Bellamy, their limbs intertwining. Murphy curls up against him, placing his head atop Bellamy’s chest, smiling when Bellamy starts playing with his hair. 

“I’ve never been this happy,” Murphy says, quietly, eyes closed. The sunshine and Bellamy’s presence combined is enough to keep him warm for years. 

Bellamy takes one of his hands in his and squeezes, a grounding presence. “Me, too.”

He pulls Bellamy close, and knows he is no longer afraid. It is just him, Bellamy, and their adopted rooster against the world, and while it is not the ending he ever thought he’d have, it’s the one he’s learning he’s always wanted. He thinks if Romeo and Juliet had ended up like this, it would have been a much better story.

In this moment, Jonathan Murphy is happy, and the universe is pleased.

_ My bounty is as boundless as the sea, _

_ My love as deep; the more I give to thee, _

_ the more I have, for both are infinite.  _

_ \- William Shakespeare; Romeo & Juliet. _

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> i hope. it was good. i know it sure was long!
> 
> if you like, come talk to me on twitter @ sapphictomaz.


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